Back to back marathons

Boston to Grandma's was the second time I've tried two marathons in approximately 2 months; Chicago to CIM was the first. 

I learned from that first attempt, and changed up some things for the second try.  And now, for future reference for myself and anyone else that may be interested, here's what I've learned.

But first, it's worth noting that we're all experiments of one, both in running generally, and in multiple marathoning.  Additionally, I recover relatively slowly compared to others.  Thus, my lessons learned apply to me, but may or may not apply to others.  When I write "you" here, it's really directed primarily at myself.  With that disclaimer in place, hopefully this is still of use to others.

When I refer to "back-to-back" marathons I mean two marathons, both raced all out, within approximately 7-10 weeks.   A very specific pattern that differs both from fully raced marathons that are either closer or further apart, and from targeting a second race after dropping out of or jogging in the first.

Two all-out marathons within a short period of time is very simple to structure (though not easy to pull off).  You just rest and hope to recycle your fitness from the first race. On the other end of the spectrum, two marathons with 3 months or more is doable if not ideal.  You have enough time to rest and get a solid training cycle in.   And if you dropped out of the first marathon (assuming you dropped out at mile 20 or before), you don't have to worry about recovery from a full marathon, so it's just a matter of extending your training cycle.

[to that point - I really believe that if a time goal is of the utmost importance to you, be it a Boston qualifier or a Olympic Trials qualifier, it's far better to drop out of your first marathon at some point before mile 20 if it's obvious at that point that you will miss your goal.  Dropping out of a marathon is obviously very tough mentally,  but will set up you up much better for a second try in the next few months.]

Two months between two all-out marathons is tricky.  It's enough time to lose fitness, and not enough time to fully recover.  You have to balance rebuilding fitness for the second race with recovering from the first, and you don't have enough time to do either well, let alone both simultaneously.

So, it's tricky.  Here are my tricks.

Decision time.

There is a right time to decide you want to race a second marathon.  And that time is at least 10 days after finishing the first race.  If you start the first race counting on having a second chance to run your fastest in a few weeks, it will be very hard to commit totally to marathon #1 and leave it all out there.  As for immediately after the marathon... emotions are high, and can interfere with one's judgment.  It also takes a good week or two to assess how you are recovering from the first race.

This time, though I started thinking about doing another marathon a few days after Boston, I didn't commit to Grandma's until 3 weeks post-Boston, after I had completed a workout of 2x4 miles at marathon pace.  Though that workout didn't go great - I was still very tired from Boston, it went well enough to confirm that I was recovering reasonably quickly and that running Grandma's well (for a distinct definition of "well" - more on that below) was possible.

I do think that there's nothing wrong with entering a first marathon with the hopes of running a second marathon later for fun without a time goal - choosing something like Boston or New York or Big Sur, where the second race is about the experience and not for time.  But that's not the scenario I'm discussing here.

Management of expectations before the race is key.

The first time I tried back-to-back marathons, I had hopes that I would be able to improve on my fitness from the first marathon, and run even faster in the second.  CIM proved me wrong.  On a perfect weather day and a very fast course, I finished 2 minutes slower than my Chicago time, despite running a smart, well-paced race.  I didn't have the same fitness I had at Chicago, and I also hadn't recovered from Chicago.

Thus, when I doubled back to Grandma's, I also dialed back my hopes.  I believe I was in 3 hour shape at the end of my Boston cycle (assuming a very fast course and perfect weather - neither of which applied to Boston) and trained accordingly. For Grandmas, I pulled back to train as if I was in 3:05 shape -basically a 5 minute penalty for the second marathon.

More important than the time, though, was having non-time goals.  It's a sports-psychology truism that most of us don't perform that well if we're exclusively focused on a specific end goal, like a time or placing.  Process-oriented is better than goal-oriented, blah blah blah.

That rule applies double when doubling back.  Stated another way: revenge races don't work.  If you are going to tack a second marathon onto your training cycle, you need to have additional reasons to run the second race besides wanting to improve on your first time.   Something so that the race will still have been worth it if you don't run faster the second time around.  Because it's highly unlikely that you'll run faster the second time, and chasing an unrealistic goal will lead to poor training decisions at a point where you have absolutely no margin for error.

Put another way: if your only purpose for doubling back to a second marathon is to beat your time from the first, don't waste your time and your body.  Rest and recover, so you can take your best shot a few months later.

Don't Rush the Recovery.

One of the biggest mistakes that I've seen is that people rush back into training for #2.    It's an awful idea.  Yes, I know that you have another marathon coming up in less than 10 weeks, and it's hard not to panic when you're not running at all in the first week after the first marathon.  But recovering from the first marathon must be your top priority if you want to run marathon two well.  Or heck, run it at all - it seems like the majority of those I know who try to double back never make it to marathon #2, felled by the fatal error of jumping right back into marathon training after the first race.

You are not going to improve your fitness between the two marathons, so don't bother.  Make sure you recover as well and as quickly as you can from the first, with your second priority being maintaining your fitness.

This is another reason to slow down your target marathon pace for the second race when you ease back into training (after recovery).  I did this for Grandma's, slowing my goal pace from 6:50 to 7:00.  Doing this worked well because 1) it was a better match for my current post-Boston fitness (one should always train to current fitness, not what you had 6 weeks ago) and 2) slowing stuff down helped me recover from Boston even as I tried to get ready for Grandma's.

Manage your expectations during the race.

The first time I tried doubling back, I assumed my body would feel the same way during the second race.  I learned differently.    The truth is that it takes longer to truly recover from a marathon than it does to feel like you're recovered.  There are reserves that you don't realize you're lacking until you reach for them - and they're not there.

This is easiest to explain with an analogy.  In the first hours and days after a marathon, most of us are pretty sore and tired.  Then we start feeling better.  And then you go for a run, and realize that you're not recovered yet.

Later, after you've been doing easy runs and everything feels fine, you hop into your first workout back.  And everything feels fine, and then all the sudden it doesn't.  And you realize that you're not recovered yet.

Running a second marathon follows a similar pattern.  Everything feels fine until it starts getting hard, at which point you realize that your energy pantry hasn't been fully restocked.  It's a strange feeling - akin to low tire pressure - that I've only felt twice - when I doubled back to CIM in 2016 and to Grandma's in 2018.   And no, it's not bonking, or cramping, or blowing up due to pacing errors - I've done all of those and know how they feel - this is different.

Conservative and steady pacing is key in the marathon, but even more when doubling back.  Because you really don't have the reserves that you normally do.

Timing between marathons.

Every week between the two races matters.  There are some people who race very well at shorter distances 3-4 weeks after their goal marathon.  If that's you, then this probably doesn't apply to you.  But....for the rest of us, you need to have enough time to recover from the first marathon and also to restore your fitness.

That generally means at least 8-9 weeks between races, with more time being better.  If you have less time then that, than I think it's better to run the second race 2-4 weeks after the first, and just rest between the two.

5-7 weeks is the worst choice in terms of spacing marathons - it's just enough to lose fitness between the two, but not enough time to either recover from the first or train for the second.

How I trained between Boston and Grandma's.

In case it's helpful, here's a quick summary of what my training looked for the 9 weeks between the two.  For comparison, my normal marathon training volume is about 60-65 miles on land and another 15-20 "miles" pool-running.

Week 1: Boston Marathon on Monday - just pool-running and a bit of swimming and junk food the rest of the week.  Only priority is recovery.  Thinking about doing Grandma's Marathon, but not committing.

Week 2: 44 miles running, all easy, with the longest run being 11.5 miles.  Also a tiny bit of pool-running and swimming.  Chat with coach - he is on board with Grandma's Marathon if I feel like I'm recovering well.

Week 3: 56 miles running and 16 "miles" pool-running.  Did some short hill strides on Tuesday, a controlled 3200,1600 at tempo pace on Friday, and then 2x4 miles at marathon pace on Sunday as part of a 14 mile long run.  Goal marathon pace is 7:00, not the 6:50 it was for Boston.  After the 2x4 goes decently, decide that I am running Grandma's Marathon.

Week 4: 66 miles running, 18 "miles" pool-running.  Track intervals on Tuesday, 4 mile tempo on Friday, and 18 mile long run with last 6 miles at goal marathon pace.

Week 5: 64 miles running, 18 "miles" pool-running.  Track intervals on Tuesday, broken tempo of 3200, 1600 on Friday, and then a 16 mile long run on Sunday including 2x5 miles at goal marathon pace.

Week 6: 65 miles running, 19 "miles" pool-running.  Track intervals on Tuesday, 5K tempo (was supposed to be 8K but I bailed) on Friday, and 21 mile long run on Sunday with last 7 miles at goal marathon pace.  Start tapering.  Again.

Week 7: 46 miles running, 17 "miles" pool-running.  Track intervals on Tuesday, 5K race on Saturday, 14 mile long run on Sunday.

Week 8: 50 miles running, 12 "miles" pool-running.  Track intervals on Tuesday, 5K tempo on Friday, 10 mile long run on Sunday.

Week 9: Race week.  16 miles running and 6 "miles" pool-running pre-race; Grandma's Marathon on Saturday.

Lessons learned: Boston Marathon 2018

I'd like to say that I'd DNS if I ever again faced conditions like those at the 2018 Boston Marathon (below 40 degrees, rain, high winds).  But I'm just kidding myself - I'd absolutely take another shot.  And hopefully be a bit more successful, based on what I learned this time around.

So here's my notes, written as much for myself as for anyone else, on what I learned.

[An aside here:  Other runners have told me that they would have known how to handle these conditions, because they had run in this type of weather before.  Let me be clear: unless you have stood or sat outside for 90 minutes and then raced a marathon (not a half) in that weather you have not experienced what it was like at Boston 2018.

I've run in all sorts of conditions - I don't ever skip a workout or an outside run due to weather unless it is unsafe.  I've run long runs and track workouts in Boston 2018 type weather, and I've raced up to the half-marathon distance in similar weather.   Despite all of that, I did not understand what it would be like on that day until I experienced it.  And though I am admittedly an adorably neurotic over-preparer, I was not prepared.]

• Nutrition: this is always important during a marathon.  But in very cold and wet conditions, taking in enough calories becomes even more important since you are expending energy not only to run but also to stay warm.  At the same time, cold hands that don't work well, combined with wet clothing, make it much harder to eat enough. 
  
  One mistake I made was carrying all my gels safety-pinned to the inside of my shorts.  It's routine for me to lose some control of my hands even in moderate conditions (Raynauds) and this method has historically worked well then.  I partially open the gels before safety-pinning them, and then I need only grab the gel and rip it off of my shorts.  If yanking it doesn't finish opening the gel, then I finish the job with my teeth.  I don't need fine motor skills or grip strength when doing it this way.  I just need to be able to get my hand around the gel packet, which I can generally do even when my hands are stiff and have lost feeling.
  
  But this method failed me at Boston, when cold hands that weren't working (expected and planned for) combined with very soggy shorts (unexpected and not planned for) meant that I couldn't work my hands underneath the waistband of my shorts to grab my gels.
  
  In retrospect, I wish I'd followed a friend's example and tucked additional gels inside my gloves as well as within my sports bra.  You can always run with gels and not use them.  (Others stored gels in their arm-warmers, but that wouldn't have worked for me, since my arm-warmers are not snug.)
  
  I also carried a handheld water bottle with me, but I won't do that again in these conditions, unless I intend to toss it when empty.  My hands were too cold to open and refill the bottle.  And I was so soaked that getting more cold water on my hands wasn't a concern.
  
  So... more gels in every possible place, and no water bottle.
  
• Clothing before start:  I wore multiple layers before the start - rain coat over heavy sweatshirt/sweatpants over rain poncho, with a disposable body warmer tucked in there as well  And the best idea of all - waterproof shoecovers (just Google them - there are many brands available). 
  
  While others carried a second pair of shoes to the start to change into, I think that would have been tough for me - both because of the difficulty of finding a place to change shoes, and because my hands were already too cold to tie my shoes well.
  
  I saw others wearing plastic bags tied over their running shoes.  And for many of them, the bags had slipped and ripped - they really weren't up to the stresses of Athlete's Village mud.
  
  The shoe covers were one of my best ideas.  Absolutely will do that again next time.  $8 very well spent.
  
• Clothing for race:  For Boston, I went with my singlet, arm-warmers, shorts, a running hat that I didn't like (so that if it got blown off my head I wouldn't mind) with a headband underneath. And then a throwaway long sleeve techical t-shirt (knotted at my bustline so my number showed) and a clear poncho.
  
  I went with this because this same outfit, less the arm-warmers, had worked very well at the Shamrock Half-Marathon in 2017, where we had similar weather.  However, I failed to consider that I would be running for more than twice as long in a marathon, and also that I would be running significantly slower, and thus generating less heat.

  

  This outfit also resulted
  in lousy pictures.

  
  
  Of course the problem here is that there's really no running clothing designed for these exact conditions - sustaining moderate effort in rain, high wind, and below 40 degrees for multiple hours.  I have a raincoat for running, but it doesn't breath well at all - it's only good for easy running.  I also have some lighter water resistant stuff, but it was way too loose fitting and would have created significant drag in the headwind.
  
  Thinking about it post-race, I realized that there is another type of athlete that deals with those conditions occasionally during long all day rides at moderate effort - cyclists. 

  

  You have your Boston Jacket
  and I have mine.

  So I bought a cycling jacket that was form-fitting and water proof/wind resistant.  A bonus feature is that it has a large pocket in the back where I can tuck yet more extra gels.  I'll race in this if there is a next time.
  
  Incidentally, I don't regret wearing shorts instead of tights.  I'm confident that my tights would have been waterlogged within a mile or two, and chilled me more than bare legs would have.
  
• Hands.  For my hands, I wore Scotchgarded glove-mittens with handwarmers tucked inside and plastic gloves underneath.   This didn't work that well.  The Scotchgard in particular was a wasted effort.
  
  Perhaps if I had donned the plastic gloves earlier when my hands were warmer, they would have retained more heat.  But other than that, I'm not sure what else I could have done.  Others have suggested wearing the plastic gloves as a top layer.  However the issue there is that my hands do not generate any heat on their own when I am running.  That's why I carry handwarmers almost constantly - to generate the heat to be captured within my mittens.  And handwarmers wouldn't work under plastic gloves, since they require exposure to air.
  
  I think that in the end, my hands were a lost cause.  My only other option would have been to wear my "boxing gloves" - massive snowboarding mittens that I wear when it's 25 or below.  However, I can't take gels at all while wearing those (it's hard even to lap my watch in them) so I couldn't have used them for the marathon, even if I had brought them with me.
  
• Pacing/race execution:  With regard to pacing, I almost always prefer to start slow and then gradually build my pace over time.  It works in nearly all conditions - when it's warm and humid I'll alter slightly to staying conservative for an extended period of time and then hammering the last quarter to third of the race.
  
  However, I think these conditions were the one time that strategy didn't work.  I didn't save any energy by running conservatively - in fact I expended as much energy, if not more, by trying to stay warm.  It would have been far better to pick up the pace after mile 4-5 (not hammering, but just slightly less cautious), so that I could have stayed warmer.  I would have been running faster with the exact same energy expenditure.
• Seeding/Starting Place: In hindsight, part of me also regrets not seeding myself further back.  Because I'm sometimes worried about gun time (when masters prize money is at stake) and sometimes not I've experimented with seeding myself at different places within a start.   And I've learned that when there is a headwind, your experience in the race depends greatly on where you are in the crowds.  The further back, the better.  It doesn't seem like it at the time but you lose much less time and spend much less effort weaving around slower runners than you do fighting a headwind.   
  
  The best example I can point to is Cherry Blossom 2016, where we had a sustained winds of 15-20 mph with gusts much higher.  I accidentally started in the wrong corral, with those significantly slower than me. I had to do a lot of weaving in the first 3-4 miles (much of which was directly into the wind) but I didn't consider the wind a real issue until I caught up to where I "should" have been.
  
  [Related to this point, anyone who started at the front of Wave 1 had a completely different experience from the rest of us running Boston. If you were 1/1 or 1/2 at Boston 2018, I owe you a drink next time I see you.  Because you ran the hardest race of all.]
  
  So...with this knowledge, why did I start in my designated wave and corral, rather than move back?  At the time, I chose to stay in my wave because the forecast indicated that the weather would be deteriorating over the course of the day.  I thought that the earlier I could start, the better.  It wasn't until I got to Athlete's Village that I realized I had miscalculated, and the weather had already rolled in.
  
  That being said, in the end I'm not too upset about not moving back.  Sharing the whole bus/Athlete's Village experience with my training partners Larry, Chris, and Juan is actually one of my favorite memories of the day, and something I will always treasure (as sappy as that reads).  I wouldn't trade that for the possibility of a slightly faster time.

The pre-run routine

In a recent race report, I referred to my 15 minute pre-run routine to get everything stretched out.  In response, I fielded several requests to post my routine.  Sure.  It's below.

But first, a disclaimer (because I'm an attorney, and such things are second nature).

This is MY routine that addresses MY specific weaknesses.  I'm not recommending this as a general routine for others.  I think that most runners could benefit from a pre-run routine, especially those who are older or injury-prone.  But the structure of that pre-run routine should be individually tailored to that runner's needs.

***

So... what are my issues?  Currently the big ones are:

• a wonky left SI joint that likes to pop out of place when I'm asleep (and yes, I've tried different sleeping positions).
• very tight psoas and quad muscles
• a right abdominal muscle that likes to fall asleep
• glutes that like to fall asleep
• shoulders that are usually tense and tight.

***

The routine to address my issues, in chronological order:

1.  A yoga supine spinal twist: I lay on my back and then pull one knee into my chest while the other leg remains extended.  Then I twist across my torso - pulling the left knee across to the right, or vice versa.  Most mornings, I get a nice pop in my left hip when I do this (and I walk much straighter after).  Occasionally I get a pop in the right hip, though that's the exception, not the rule
2. Several gentle lunges, alternating right and left leg forward.  I start with low lunges on each side (hands on floor) and build to a high crescent lunge on each side (torso erect, arms extended above).  Between each lunge, I return to a down dog pose, often including a down dog split pose where the leg that was just forward is now extended and curved behind me.
3. A warrior two sequence.  I assume warrior two pose from yoga, holding for 5 breaths.  Then into extended side-angle pose, with one forearm gently resting on my knee while the other arm extends overhead.  I prefer the variant where the forearm rests on my knee over the version where one's hand touches the floor because I find the first to be a better stretch for the psoas.
   
   While holding side angle pose, I do five slow large circles with the extended arm - basically a backstroke-type motion.  Then I return to warrior two.
   
   Next, while still in warrior two foot pattern, I clasp my hands behind my back and perform a version of humble warrior two, but with my torso folded down halfway between my two legs (traditional humble warrior two has the torso fold much closer to the front leg).  When done this way, it's a nice groin stretch.
   
   Then I return to warrior two, and stretch backwards into reverse warrior.  Hold for 5 breathes.  Then return back to extended side angle pose for a second time, this time holding the pose stable for 5 breaths, feeling the nice psoas stretch.
   
   Once I've done that all on one side, I repeat on the other.
4. Quad stretching.  I hold the couch stretch as defined by Kelly Starrett for 3 minutes on each side.  For the first minute, I lean fairly forward, for the second minute my torso is at roughly a 45 degree angle from the floor (and the wall).  For the third minute, I'm limber enough for my torso to be roughly perpendicular to the floor (as shown in the picture).
5. Turning on the abs - I lie down on my back again, and perform 10 eagle crunches on each side.
6. Turning on the glutes - I perform single-leg deadlifts on each side, holding a old closet rod in both hands as a balancing aid (I find it easier to do single-leg deadlifts with a light bar than with nothing at all.  I suspect this is for reasons similar to why tight-rope walkers use a bar for balance).  I don't have a prescribed number of repetitions here - I do the deadlift motion until it feels easy and I'm not wobbling - at that point, my glutes are awake.
7. Tight shoulders - I place a tennis ball against a wall and self-massage my shoulders, back, and pectorals, working out all the knots (there are always knots).

Then, I'm done.  That's the 15 minute routine (longer if the cats try to help).  

***

The abbreviated version includes steps 1 and 2, plus extended side angle (from step 3) on each side for 5 breathes.  Then I hold the first minute of the couch stretch (step 4) before skipping step 5.  I do a few quick deadlifts on each side (step 6), and then skip step 7, heading out the door.

I do the "full routine" before any key run - i.e. a race or a workout.  For other runs, I prefer to do the full routine as well, but often I'm crunched for time and do the abbreviated version.  

I never run without doing at least the abbreviated routine.  It's simple - if I don't warm-up before I run, I have a lousy awful run and feel sore after, with my traditional injury areas flaring.  If doing the routine means that I'm late for my run, then so be it.

I'll also do parts of this routine (especially the couch stretch) at other times in the day as well.  The more open my hips are, the better.

***

One obvious question is whether the order I do these exercises in matters.  The answer is yes, if I'm doing these in the morning, pre-run.

I always start with getting my SI joint in whack. (Why do we say "out of whack" but never "in whack"?)  I need to have my hips level before doing anything else to stretch or activate.  

Steps 2-4 are all hip/groin stretches increasing in intensity.  Were I to do the couch stretch first, I'm afraid I'd pull something.

Once my hips are open, then I get the abs engaged with step 5.  I've found that if my hip flexors are tight, then they do some of the work that my abs should be doing, so I prefer to loosen the hip flexors with steps 2-4 before targeting the abs.

The glutes (step 6) come after that - in order for my glutes to fire correctly, I need to have my hips open, and having my abs engaged helps.

The final step, tennis balling my shoulders, is the one exception - that one can be done at any time.  Or shortchanged, if I've got limited time.  I put it last simply because it's the lowest priority.

The other obvious question: where do I get the time?  

Honestly, I just make it happen.  Like brushing my teeth or cleaning the litter box - two other things that must get done before I leave the house in the morning.  I get up earlier in the morning to fit it in.  And if I have to start my run later and run less miles, then oh well.  

Avoiding injury is much more important than any individual run.  

Why we cheat (and how to stop it)

This is a photo of the woman who cut the course at a recent race,
robbing my friend of her rightful second place finish.
For more details, read here.  Or expand this picture and look
at her watch to see she only ran 11.5 miles
during her "half-marathon."

I'm a huge fan of the Marathon Investigations blog, and of the cheating investigative work done on Letsrun.

Sports are awesome because they enable individuals (at ALL levels of ability) to discover their own potential and limits, and accurately measure those qualities against others. Cheating siphons out all that is good about sports, leaving just a husk.  And so I'm grateful to those who keep a watchful eye.

Cheating happens at all levels, from world class elites to the back of the pack.  Successful masters runners and those who just want to BQ.

But when slower runners cheat, others sometimes ask why? Why cheat by doping or cutting the course if a world title or medal or money is not at stake?  Why cheat if you're not a professional runner?

***

As it turns out, the why has an answer.  Heck, it even has a model.   In the 1970s, criminology researchers Edwin Sutherland and Donald Cressy described the Business Fraud Triangle.  About 10 years ago, that model was extended to academia - more specifically, to student cheating at business school.

Under this model, academic cheating occurs when three components are present:

• Opportunity: is it possible to cheat?
• Incentive: is there a reason to cheat?
• Rationalization: does one perceive cheating as "not wrong" in some way - can you cheat, but still see yourself as a good person?

This model works for running also.

***

Opportunity is obvious.  Road races, especially longer races, are often on unsecured routes with routes that double back, or pass conveniently close to subway stops.  Performance enhancing drugs can be acquired by anyone with the right friends at the gym, or the right doctors.  Timing chips and bibs are easily shared.

The second prong, incentive, confounds some when applied to non-elite runners.  Why go to all that trouble to cut the course or spend all that money to dope if you're not a professional?  If money or fame is not on the line?  

Easy.  We live in a culture where success is praised and prioritized.  And in running, success is generally defined by race times.  Some care about qualifying for Boston, or hitting some other non-elite time standard.  Those who blog or "live" on Instagram have followers tracking their times.  Others still have friends and acquaintances and teammates that they want to impress, whether by time, placing, or completion.  

Anyone who enters a race has something they want to accomplish.  And that something is their incentive.

More fundamentally, racing is about discovering your personal mental and physical limits.  And that's why we get so nervous.   We're not scared of pain; we're scared we'll falter when we hurt.

Cheating allows you to dodge the moment of truth.  To control the answer.  To be safe.   And that's a tempting incentive.

Rationalization is the third prong, and easier than ever.  

To explain: we live in a culture where it's OK to have your photos airbrushed or filtered.   Business professionals join committees that they never participate in for the resume value, or pay "dues" to be named to an "honorary society," or accept nominations for "top women under 45 in IOT cybersecurity" (said award contingent on the purchase of an $150 acrylic trophy for the display case).

"Spontaneous" announcements and photos are edited and filtered for Facebook; "surprise" engagements take weeks to plan and are covered by a professional photographer and hashtagged into incomprehensibility.   And then, there's Spanx.

[completely off topic, but necessary as full disclosure - I dye my hair.]

Thus, presenting the best image of yourself to others is our zeitgeist, and it's socially acceptable to contort and distort and filter and manipulate and do what you need to do in order to do just that.  

It's an easy hop, once that mentality is in place, to justifying cutting the course on a hot day so that you run the time you think you would have in cooler conditions, so that you can get that goal time you believe you deserve.  Or to take stuff that lets you be the runner you always thought you were anyway, so you can prove it to others.

And the more others do it, where "it" is cheating in some form, the easier rationalization is.  If others are "doing it," then it's frighteningly easy to believe that you're not cheating - you're just competing.

Here's three trophies from major races in the last 18 months that
were shipped to me after the fact, rather than being awarded to me
on the podium.  Why?  Cheating.

***

So how do we stop this? 

(by "we" - I mean the running community)

Taking each prong in turn - we can control opportunity to cheat, with more and better drug testing, with timing mats and cameras.  But we can never eliminate opportunity entirely - heck, one can cheat in indoor track.

Incentive is a simple fact of the racing life.  We race because we care about our performances, whether it be winning, qualifying for Boston, breaking 30 minutes in a 5K, or just crossing that darn finish line. Remove the desire, and you remove the very point of racing, at all levels.  Incentive will remain as long as racing does.

So, to rid ourselves of cheating, we need to reduce rationalization - the ability to justify or excuse cheating.  

We're not going to be able to change pop culture as a whole - photo filters, ghost writers, and paid listings in "best professionals in DC" will endure.  But we can change the culture in running and racing.

There tends to be a view that some cheating is OK.  If it doesn't affect the top of the leaderboard.  Or if it's something that "everyone does."  Or if "they never test."  It's acceptable to take menopause drugs with testosterone if you're not going to win the race anyway.  Or to give your bib to someone else if the race won't let you transfer.  It's the tolerance of some cheating that enables others to push the envelope.

And thus, that attitude needs to end, to be replaced with a zero tolerance stance towards any cheating, no matter how "minor."   So that we can eliminate the opportunities to justify or excuse cheating in all its forms.

That means no bib-swapping, even if nobody's in contention for an award.  That means no racing while taking banned substances because you're older or you're not fast anyway or everyone else does it or you're just taking it once.  That means no cutting the course because you're having a bad day or because you saw someone else do it or because you're not going to place anyway.   

Marathon Investigation does fantastic work (please donate to support if you agree).  But the responsibility for ending cheating lies with ALL of us.  Through cultural change from within.

Yes, it is a sport...

Every four years, the Summer Olympics come around, and the public is exposed to sports outside the American canon of basketball, baseball, football (not soccer), and hockey (plus golf and Nascar). Every four years, we're impressed by the athletes in some of these niche sports.  And every four years, we mock other sports.

Equestrian sports fall into the second category.  I've heard it all: "horse dancing"; "the horse does all the work"; etc.  NBC's coverage of the sport doesn't do it any favors either.  Instead of explaining the nuances and technicalities and physical demands of the sport, they recite cliches like "the beauty of the partnership between horse and rider."

(if I hear or read that one more time, I will scream.  No one ever talks about "the beauty of the partnership" in volleyball or crew).

Equestrian sports can be really interesting and exciting to watch - as evidence, I present my significant other, who knew very little about either riding or running before dating me.  He now finds the horse sports exciting, while a televised marathon remains of little interest.

However, you can't enjoy watching the sport unless you understand the sport.  So here's a primer.

First of all, a disclaimer: there are three types of horse sports in the Olympic games (well actually four, but Pentathlon is its own beast).   They are dressage, three day eventing, and showjumping. Showjumping, which is being televised next week, is what I did as a teenager.  And since I did "the jumpers" to a fairly high level, I feel qualified to explain it.

I did NOT compete in three day eventing or dressage, both of which are being shown this week.  And so I understand the general demands and structures of those sports in the same way that I understand 800m running or triathlons - enough to enjoy watching, but not enough to discuss in great detail.

Thus, I'll stick to what I know.  Showjumping.

***

There's two assumptions that underlie most people's dismissal of equestrian sports.  The first is that the primary concern in jumping a horse is not falling off.  I've come to the conclusion that many people think that successfully jumping horses is about a) getting the horse pointed the right direction and b) staying on while the horse jumps.  Steering and not falling off are indeed essential to competing in showjumping, in the same way that the ability to run a bit further than 6 miles is essential to racing a 10K well.  But there's much more than that to the sport.

The second assumption is that horse sports are not physically demanding.    I think this stems out of each person's tendency to define fitness in terms of the physical qualities needed to excel in their chosen sport.  If you run or swim or bike, you define fitness as aerobic endurance.  If you lift, you define fitness as pure strength.

Riding is a sport of skill, but also of strength.  You need to be quite strong to be a successful rider, though nowhere near the level of a elite weightlifter.  While most strength sports focus on concentric work - lifting something, moving something, etc; riding is an isometric strength workout.  Riders work very hard to keep stuff stable, and to engage in controlled, fairly small movements.  This is why the physical work that a rider is doing isn't apparent to the casual observer - because the rider isn't making large motions (hopefully).  But as anyone that's held chair pose in yoga or done planks can testify, isometric strengthwork can be very tough.

[when I watch dressage, my abs and biceps ache in sympathy with the rider.  I'm guessing the majority of NBC's viewership doesn't experience similar]

There's also a belief that riding is not an aerobic sport at all - that "you just sit there" while the horse does the work.  This belief is perpetuated by the many people every year who go on an organized trail ride, where a horse carries them around some scenic locale while they clutch the mane with both hands.

That's not riding.  That's sitting on a horse.  Riding (not sitting) is aerobic work. Yes, the horse is working and breathing hard, but so is the rider.  Trail riding is to equestrian sports like tubing is to kayaking, or sledding is to slalom skiing.

When riding a horse at the canter, my perceived aerobic effort matches that of running at marathon pace, and my heart rate does as well (mid 160s for both).  I can still speak in phrases or the occasional sentence, with a few breaths in between, but I am WORKING.  The key difference, of course, is that I'm probably not going to be working at the canter for more than 5 minutes at a time, while I'll be running my marathon for a bit over three hours.  Running is far MORE aerobically demanding than riding.  But riding does involve some aerobic effort, combined with far more strength than one needs to run.


***

So, what does a showjumping rider actually do?

Short answer: many different and difficult things that enable the horse to jump the course of obstacles.  In the end, it's the horse that takes off and lands.  But it's the rider's job to ensure that the horse is able to jump the jump well, with most of that work being done before the horse and rider arrive at the jump.  That's the skill part, which in turn requires significant strength to pull off.

I stole this picture from someone
who stole it from Horsejunkies.com.
Horsejunkies is a very good site, BTW.
You should all visit it.

To understand this, we'll start with a very simple jump - imagine a hurdle similar to what a runner would encounter in a steeplechase race on the track.  Now visualize a horse jumping over the hurdle.

Or, alternately, just look at the picture on the right.

As you can see, the horse arcs over the jump, from take-off to landing.   In order to jump a fence well, the horse's arc should be centered over the highest part of the jump.   

(This jumping arc is generally referred to as a bascule, which is a pretentious sounding word that I despise, and so won't use again.)

The rider's job (in part) is to shape that arc.  Part of that job.is ensuring that the horse takes off from the optimal place in front of the fence.  Not too close, or the front legs may hit the fence.  And not too far, or the back legs may not clear the fence.   And if you totally screw up, getting to a spot from which it is very hard or impossible to clear the fence, the horse will likely refuse to jump (and often times, you're grateful, as they've just saved your neck).

The rider also controls the shape of the jumping arc, generally by shaping the horse's stride before the jump.  If you have your horse cantering with short, bouncy strides before the jump, you'll get an arc that is narrow but quite high - perfect for high jumps that aren't very wide.  If your horse is jumping out of a more extended stride, then you'll achieve an wider, flatter arc - much better for jumping very

Most of these are verticals, but there's also an oxer,
a triple bar, and an open water.

wide jumps with little height.  Of course, there's many different shapes of jumps, and so a need for many different types of arcs.   Some jumps aren't very wide (they're called verticals), some jumps are wider but still high (oxers and triple bars) and there's occasionally a shallow but wide pit full of water.

***

So, that's how to handle a single jump.  But of course, it's not that simple.  While you occasionally have jumps sitting out in the middle of nowhere, most jumps are placed at measured distances from each other. And this fact makes shaping the arc for each jump harder.

A horse's normal stride is assumed to be 12 feet long, and the horse generally needs 6 feet in front of the jump to take off, and lands 6 feet away from the jump on the other side (that's a vast simplification, but just go with it - if you know this sport, then this post isn't aimed at you anyway).

So...if you have two jumps with 60 feet between them, then your horse will take 4 strides between the two.  60 feet less 6 feet for landing and less 6 feet for takeoff  is 48 feet, and 48 feet equals four 12 foot strides.

[incidentally, this 12 foot stride is why, if you ever watch a showjumping competition, you may see riders "walk the course" - striding between two jumps with a slightly military step.   They're actually measuring the distance between the two jumps, with each step that they take being exactly 3 feet long.]

But suppose that the second jump is fairly wide, and so you need a more extended stride to clear it. That more extended stride is 13 feet long.  If you do 4 strides, each 13 feet long, then you've covered 52 feet (plus the 6 for landing for the first jump), and you are way too close to the second jump.

How do you fix that?  One way is to land and then take two strides that are 11 feet long and two strides that are 13 feet long.  If the jumps are set on a curving path, another option is to take the turn wider, so that you can fit in four longer strides.

***

Course designers get mean sometimes.   And they get meaner as the level of competition get higher.   In my example above, they could set the jumps to be 56 feet apart, rather than 60.  So how do you fit in the 13 foot stride that you need to jump the second wide jump?

There's at least three options:
1) take two REALLY REALLY short strides and then two longer ones, and hope it works out.
2) try to leave out a stride, taking three REALLY REALLY long strides. And hope it works out.
3) take four slightly short strides and hope it works out.

If it doesn't work out, you may get lucky and get over it anyway.  Or you may get over it but knock a rail down.  Or your horse may stop.  Or you may crash.   Trust me, it's an awful feeling to realize two or three strides away out from a fence that you've made the wrong choice.

***

And of course, it gets even harder, since horses are individuals.  Some horses lengthen their strides easily, but don't shorten well.  Some horses like to have extra space in front of the jump - preferring to take off from 7 feet away, instead of 6.  Some horses are capable of jumping very big jumps, and so you have a wider margin for error.  This is called "scope."  Some horses are more limited, and you can't stray very far from perfection without knocking down the fence or worse.

One horse I showed regularly in the jumpers as a teenager, named Bar Brat, was limited in how wide she could jump (though not how high).  She also pulled in her front legs very quickly when jumping, meaning we could take off much closer to the jump.  When I rode her, I had to ensure that we a) carried a fast pace and a longer stride, to maximize her ability to get across the width, and b) took off very close to the jump, to minimize the total width she had to clear.

There's also other details for the rider to control, like where the horse's center of gravity is - more towards the front?  More to the rear?  And whether the horse's body is straight, bent to the right, bent to the left, etc.  Going into all of that would make this entry even longer, so just suffice to say - it's hard.   People write books on this stuff.  And people buy books on this stuff.

***

As described above, this all sounds very mathematical.  Measure the course, do some calculations, and you're set.  But horses aren't like planes - you don't program in your flight path ahead of time. Rather, you have a general game plan when you go in the ring.  Something like "5 short strides between one and two, then turn right and open up my stride for fence three..."  But you have to adjust on the fly, relying on your feel for how the horse is moving, and your visual depth perception to measure where you are relative to each jump.

And, there are no buttons to push.  Instead you manage the horse's stride and balance physically.    It's another oversimplification, but basically you lengthen the stride by squeezing with your legs more (or kicking, if necessary), and shorten the stride by pulling with your arms.  Sometimes this is a fairly subtle thing.  And sometimes you have to apply force.  A LOT of force.  Bar Brat would pull fairly hard, and 90 seconds in the ring was enough to bring me to muscle failure at times.

Of course, your core is working very hard as well - stabilizing you on a moving animal, and giving you something to brace against when you (oversimplified) kick and pull.    Though it's too complicated to explain here in detail, your core also steers and balances the horse - the placement of your body on the horse affects how the horse carries its weight.

Think pilates on a reformer machine with heavy weights, but with the risk of getting seriously hurt.

Riders don't always have the low body fat of other sports (unless they're competing in equitation, which is a variant of show jumping judged on the rider's performance and appearance).  And that extra body fat sometimes creates a misleading impression of a lack of fitness.  However, any rider competing at a high level has fantastic core strength, and can also perform some impressive weight work in the gym.

***

So that, in a nutshell, is what the rider is doing on the horse.  Of course, they're doing this with a purpose, and the purpose is to place well in competition. So how is the competition scored?

In show-jumping, the objective is to jump a clear round over the course of jumps.  "Clear" means that you haven't incurred any "faults."  How does one get faults? Well....

• If you alter the height or width of an obstacle (generally by knocking a pole down), or get a foot in a water jump - 4 faults.
• If the horse refuses to jump a jump, it's called a refusal, which is a type of "disobedience."  It's 4 faults for the first disobedience.  The second disobedience is elimination.  If you circle while on course, or come to a complete stop anywhere on course, it's also considered a diobedience, and 4 faults are assessed.
• If the rider falls (defined as touching the ground) - elimination.
• If the horse falls (defined as both the shoulders and the rear end of the horse touching the ground) - elimination.
• If you jump the fences out of order, it's called "off course" - elimination.

Each course has a start and finish line clearly marked - you only incur faults while you are between the start and finish.  Fall off after the finish line, and you're still in the game - this has occasionally led to some hilarious scenes as riders who have been jumped loose struggle to hang on until they cross the finish.

You're timed from when you cross the start to when you cross the finish, and each course has a "time allowed."  At the Olympic level, riders are expected to maintain a pace of 400 meters per minute (essentially a four minute mile).  The time allowed is calculated by combining that pace with the measured distance of the course - thus the time allowed for a 500 meter course would be 75 seconds.

If you exceed the time allowed, you incur 1 fault for every 4 seconds, or portion thereof, that you are over the time.  So, if the time allowed is 75 seconds, and you take 76 seconds, you get 1 fault.    If you take 79 seconds, it's still 1 fault.  If you take 80 seconds, it's 2 faults.

If you really go crazy, and are out there for twice the time allowed, then you've exceeded the time limit - that's elimination.

***

That's how each round is scored.  In a "normal" horse show, there are multiple classes for individual horse/rider combinations, each treated as a separate mini-competition, with awards given for that class.  In each class, there's a first round, and then all competitors who are tied for first after that first round (usually, this is all the clear rounds), return for a "jump-off" where they compete over a shortened course with their time in that second round being the tie breaker.

The Olympics differ slightly, in that they are a team competition.   At Rio this year, the competition will be spread over multiple days.  The first day is a "qualifier" with relatively simple course.  Placements on this day affect the starting order for future days - there's usually an advantage to going later in the order, so that one can see how the course rides.  

Two days later, the riders return for a two round "Nations Cup" that determines the team medals. Two rounds  over the same course.  Each country fields a team of four riders, with the scores from the best three counting for each round.  At the end of the two rounds, the lowest team score (after cutting the drop score) wins.

Two days later, the top 35 riders from the team competition plus the qualifier return for the individual competition.  Their scores are reset to 0, and they compete over another two rounds, with the lowest score winning gold.  If there's a tie for any medal after the two rounds, the tied competitors jump off for the medal.

***

If you've made it through this all, then you're ready to watch Olympic Show Jumping.  Congratulations.  The qualifying round is on Sunday, August 14 from 9:00 am -12:45 pm EST.  The Team competition is on Tuesday, August 16 and Wednesday, August 17 starting at 9:00 am EST each day.  And the individual competition is on Friday, August 19 starting at 9:00 am EST.  

See you there!  (virtually)

The right and the wrong of it.

I feel like morality comes in 52 flavors these days.

Nearly everyone (except Kip Litton, Mike Rossi, Julie Miller, and a few others) agrees that course cutting is wrong, whether one is an elite or back of the pack (though Jean's Marines would disagree with that last point).  But there seems to be a sliding scale in other places.

It's generally agreed to be BAD for an elite athlete to be taking EPO or meldonium (both banned). But arguably OK for an runner to take DHEA, or testosterone, or human growth hormone, or hormone replacement therapy, or any other banned substance prescribed to combat "low T" or hot flashes or menopause or inflammation or fatigue or osteoporosis or lack of sex drive or just-not-feeling-like-a-20-year-old-anymore.

After all, those medications just return us to a normal place, right?  If asthma and thyroid medications are allowed, then these drugs, which are also prescribed to make someone "normal" again should be fine too, right?  Especially for slower people.  Or older people.   It's not like we're elites?  And it's not like these medications make us superhuman?  And it's really unfair to expect someone to have to choose between treating her osteoporosis and competing, right?  There's gotta be a line somewhere.

It's generally agreed to be BAD for someone to give their bib to someone else to run Boston.  But somehow OK to sell a bib for another race that prohibits transfers.  And if you're worried about the results being screwed up, just remove the chip from the bib right?  Or give it to someone who is very slow.  That should be fine, right?   If you didn't have to qualify for the race, and if you're not affecting the results, then what's the big deal?  There's got to be a line somewhere.

So, in each of these cases, where should the runner draw "the line"?

Easy.  It is not our place as competitors to draw the line.  The line is drawn by others.  By the person who lays out the course.  By the race management, which determines when and how bibs can be transferred.  By WADA, which determines what medications are allowed, and which are not.  

The definition of competition is that we measure ourselves against each other on the same field. Under the same rules.  And those rules apply evenly to all, regardless of one's chance of winning the competition.

We're certainly entitled to our opinions on the rules - to think that a course should be routed differently, or that bib transfers should be allowed, or that a small dose of something prescribed by our doctor that makes us feel better and really doesn't help us run faster should be allowed.  But, as runners, it's not our job to decide what rules do or don't apply to us.  It IS our job to know and follow those rules.

• To run the prescribed course, no matter how long it takes us.  No matter how much we want to impress our friends.
• To know that it's not OK to let someone else run unofficially with your bib, even if it won't affect any awards, or even show in the results.  
• To look up any medication that you are prescribed, to see whether it's permitted, and to refuse to race while on it if it is banned.  Even if you don't consider yourself "fast."  Even if it was prescribed for a specific medical condition.  Even if it's a very small dose.  Even if it just helps you feel like "your old self" again.

As runners of all levels, we contribute to the corruption of our sport if we refuse to adhere to the rules that we expect the elites to follow.  Ethics shouldn't be top heavy.  Or hinge on whether a win is at stake. 

It's our job to compete.  And that should be enough.

Two weeks.

Way back when, in the dark ages of my broken foot, I went for an aqua jog.   It was a day or two after I had broken the darn thing, and I was trying to wrap my mind around the reality of 3 months no running.

Misery loves company, and so do pool-runners.  And so, when I saw what appeared to be another runner bobbing about in the "leisure swim and aqua jog lane" I struck up a conversation.  Yup, he was a runner (for a local high school) and injured.  His coach had told him to do nothing but aqua-jogging.

Of course, I asked the question that applies equally to prison or injury-induced cross-training:  "How long are you in here for?"

He glanced back at me, his face full of misery and suffering and agony.

"TWO WEEKS."

***

Of course, I made it through my broken foot.  Returned to running, built up, trained hard, and became significantly faster than I had been, pre-broken foot.  And that's something I've tried to remember ever since.  Layoffs and setbacks aren't exit ramps; they're rest stops on the way to greater things. 

And many times, I've been the obliviously chipper one, voluntarily pool-running along a friend, offering up positive talk and experience, while they journey through MRIs and PRP injections and missed races.

I usually say something like "it seems like forever while you're stuck in the pool, but when you look back a year from now, it will seem much shorter in retrospect.  Promise."

And it's true.  The time off never seems that bad in retrospect. (Nor does race discomfort, come to think of it.)  And it also never seems that bad if it's not YOU experiencing it.  (Also just like race pain.)  It's all about perspective.

But that's the funny thing about perspective - it's context specific.  When you're sentenced to three months, two weeks off seems like nothing.  When you're in the heat of training, even a day off, or one missed workout, is hard.  Especially if it's YOU.

But of course, now I'm there again.  Two weeks in the pool, to take care of this stupid yet-to-be-completely-defined heel issue.  Several years ago, I was (mentally) very dismissive of the anguish of the kid who had to take two weeks no running.  Compared to three months, that was nothing.  But now that it's me?  Compared to two weeks of training with friends?  Two weeks in the pool is everything. 

But that's perspective for you.  Funny thing.  And I know that some day, in the not too far future, I'll look back at this, and note how short this period was.   Probably while accompanying a friend serving his or her own aqua-jogging sentence, trying to cheer him or her up.

I just need to get there first.  And that point is likely at least two weeks away.

Human

What got me first was that it was the families and friends that were targeted.

Finishing a hard race is great, but the moment that stands out is not the finish line, but the aftermath.  When you turn to your right and see your boyfriend waving at you with a grin, or your friends come to hug.

Racing is selfish, I do it for myself.  Cheering, being there - that's different.  People do that because they care for others.

And they were targeted.  And that makes me feel small and sick for having put my friends and loved ones at risk. 

But then the queasiness compounds.  I understand that events like this aren't unknown in other areas of the world - a relatively small bomb that killed two and maimed ~100 might make the evening news if it happened in Mali.  Or maybe not.   But this bomb, during a marathon, is the intersection of first and third world issues.  A bit of reality brought to my Facebook doorstep.  And I feel horrible and numb, not about this, but about the other bombings that I've barely spared a thought for.  Because they didn't happen to people like me.

And I know that in a few days, I'll go back to my normal world.  Because I'm human, and humans can only process so much.

My friends who ran Boston have lost something small but large.  A great marathon is something that is yours, to savor and enjoy.  Bombings, attacks, terrorism - those never belong to those directly affected, but become poli-social Frisbees.  I was in downtown DC during 9/11, right next to the FBI building.  Over a decade later, I bypass social media each September 11th.  Because I'm done with my memories and want to move on, while those who were further away focus on it with high emotion.  9/11 now belongs to them, not to me.

That's how it will now be for my friends who ran Boston.  No race reports.  The shock will pass, and then they'll be done with it.  Even as their marathon experience becomes something much larger and political and retweeted and speechified and no longer theirs.  The media (social included) can exercise eminent domain, and here's the best example of it.

All of us who weren't there will discuss ad infinitum, as if we knew what it was like.  But we don't.  There's no way we could.  And each time I rehash what happened in Boston today (even by this post), I'm complicit.  I'm contributing to my friends' stolen experience, their loss.  But I'm human you see.  And so I continue.

And it also seems silly, to regret that friends had their marathon experience tainted, stolen.  When so many others lost so much more.  And so much that is so much worse happens everyday, to people that aren't like me.  But I'm human, and I focus on what I can understand.

When you race, you learn about your physical and mental limits.  But today I've (re-)learned about the many limits of human nature, both my own and others.  It's not a good feeling.

But I'll eventually forget about those limits, again.  Because I'm human.

A post

It's weird to finally be here.

Just weird.

I always thought that there'd be a million thoughts running through my head at this point. What if this happens or this happens or this doesn't? 

But there's not.  Just excitement, gratitude, and (strangely) peace.  I get to go, I get to start, I get to see what happens.  I don't know how it will turn out, but I get to find out.  And that's awesome.

I think back to about 4 months ago, when I was in a different place.  I had been focused on Philly for months, but that didn't happen. 

4 months ago, I said the same thing I always do when things are hard: the downs are followed by ups, and the way out is always through.

And they are, and it was.  And I'm here.

I don't know what will happen in my race, but I know that I've gotten to the start.  I'm not overtrained; I'm not injured.  And that was my goal.  So many times during this training cycle, I was tempted to push.  To force myself through a workout or a run while ignoring warning signals.  And each time I resisted.  I told my coach at the beginning of this cycle that my ambition was to err on the side of underdoing, and that I was counting on him to crack the whip if I was slacking.

(which he never did, so I guess I did it right).

It was hard - from a mental standpoint this has been a very difficult training cycle - to always try to do less, rather than more.  But it's paid off.   My Philly training cycle was prettier on pixels, but I never got to race.  And now I do.  And that was the point.

And I feel just so incredibly lucky to have had the silent support.  Great company during workouts or in the pool.  Tolerance of my questions.  Messages wishing me good luck.  Hugs and handslaps after my last track workout this Tuesday.  Oddly enough, the good wishes aren't creating pressure; they weave into a blanket of support that warms and calms.

Thank you guys.

And now, I get to run.  The coolest, funnest long run ever.  I get to do my thing.  I can't wait.

To be continued.

So, this happened.

I'm talking about this, a few weeks back, on my favorite trail (the Custis).  Oh, this also happened, very recently.  And this happened some time ago.  Attacks on a variety of DC area running routes.

(and no, I wasn't the involved party in any of these.  Just another reader of local media.)

Usually, when something like "this" happens, we look for "the cause."  Was s/he running alone?  Wearing headphones?  Running at night?  Running on a secluded trail?  

And of course, by "the cause" I mean "the thing that I can use to distinguish between what this person did and what I do, so that I can feel safe."

[interesting to see how many people miss the point of this post, and respond with a litany of all the actions they take to ensure their safety]

But the truth is, we're never completely safe.  We each have a balance that we strike between risk and security.  For myself, I won't run on trails by myself when it's dark, and avoid heavily wooded or isolated trails at anytime when alone.  I also don't run with headphones at all.  Some think that I'm overly cautious - "headphones are fine."  Others think I'm overly risky - "I never run by myself."   And that's fine.  We each have our own balance, our own comfort zone.

And that's what it is - a comfort zone.  We feel better for being in it, and maybe we've improved our odds, based on our choices.  But the comfort zone isn't a cone of invincibility, we're never safe.  There are no guarantees against not getting jumped while running.  Except not to run.  And not running is firmly outside my comfort zone.

***

That same urge to differentiate occurs any time a friend gets injured.  We make snap judgments about the "cause" -- "well, what do you expect if you only run on the treadmill/towpath/concrete?"  Or..."of course he got injured, he wears Vibrams/Newtons/Kayanos/Adrenalines."   You ask the injured person if they've ever tried foam-rolling/stretching/etc.

The selfless part of it is that you want to be helpful, and you don't know what else you can do.  The other, selfish part is that you want to distinguish between yourself and your injured friend.  If you don't run in that shoe or on that route, if you foam roll daily, then maybe you're safe.  It's only those who don't pool-run every Tuesday that get injured.  It's a bizarre type of elitism.

But it's just like the trails.  You can make choices that control your odds to some extent, but in the end there is only one certainty.  Shit happens, and the only certain way not to risk running injury is not to run.  And that's not an acceptable choice.

So we run on, zealously adhering to our careful selection of shoes/routes/accessories, convincing ourselves that those choices create an impassable barrier between us, the injured, and the assaulted.

Doing it.

No whining.

It's a rule that Victoria imposes on the girls she coaches at synchronized swimming meets - as she explains,  "one person vocalizing their unhappiness can quickly bring the entire group spiraling down into a mess of negativity."  And that negativity then becomes an obstacle that the athlete has to overcome.  Why make competition tougher on yourself, and put yourself at a disadvantage?  Whining isn't bad because it's annoying (though it is annoying), it's bad because it blocks you from your best performances.

***

Recently, the DC area's been hit by a spate of cold temperatures.  It's been pretty chilly - colder than we're used to, though not as cold as it gets in many parts of the country.  And we've had some snow too.  But we soldier on, getting up early, before the sun rises in many cases, to log our miles.  Yay us.  Not too much whining, but a lot of self-recognition of the fact that we were out there, doing our thing.  It was cold and dark (oh MY GAWD...so freaking cold and so damn early), but I got out there and got my run in.

And that's the problem.  The self-praise for getting it done.  My use of the word "soldier on."

It seems like a positive thing at first, the self-praise.  The recognition of the fact that I went out and got those miles in, despite the obstacles of cold and wind and snow and lack of light and the blackberry constantly buzzing.  Or the heat and the humidity and the lack of water fountains.  Yay me.  Positivity is a good thing, right?

In this case, I think not.  At least not this variation on "positivity," which isn't so positive after all.  Just like whining, the self-congratulation actually creates obstacles that weren't there before.   The cold and the snow and the early dawn really haven't been that bad, especially for those of us in the sheltered DC metro area (I can visualize my New Hampshire and North Dakota and Minnesota and Colorado friends nodding fervently).  But by celebrating myself for "overcoming them," I've made them into something much harder.

Perhaps easiest to explain with an example.  Suppose that I normally do a track workout of 8x800m on the track.  That's my norm.  Nothing special.  One day, it occurs to me that 8x800 is a lot, and most people only do 6x800.  And wow, some people barely make it around the track.  Hey, 8x800 is actually kinda crazy and hard and difficult, and it's really pretty exceptional that I pull it off.  Yay me.  I'm pretty cool.

Next time, that track workout is a lot harder for me.  8x800 just seems imposing in a way it never did before.  I've just created a mental hill for myself, where none was before.

***

It's simple.  Running is what we do.  It's not a big deal to run before dawn.  Or after dark.  Or on the treadmill.  Or when the thermometers show numbers different what what you usually see.  It's still just running.  Something that you choose to do because it fulfills you.

Either I do it, or I don't.  The background of my running is not a big deal until I make it a big deal.  Then it's one more thing I have to overcome.  And my training cycle just got a bit tougher.  Not because of the weather, but because of me.

***


I'm not advocating a lack of positivity.  Positivity is a good thing (and something I'm working on) -- it brings you to your best performance.  I'm also definitely not advocating that one ignore situations that require one to change plans, like slowing down when it's super hot or super cold, skipping or modifying a workout to avoid injury, running on the treadmill instead of in the hurricane, accepting that one can't breathe because of pollen, etc.  Positivity doesn't mean the denial of reality.   Sometimes, you have to adapt.

But I've come to understand that self-congratulation for doing normal things in non-normal conditions is not really positivity.   It's so much better to be truly positive - basking in the fun of running.  It's not that you "got out there despite X"; of course you got out there.  It's what you choose to do.  It wasn't an issue - you were happy to do it.  Instead focus on the great time that you had running - the friends you chatted with, the pretty sights, the runner's high.

See how that works?  Life becomes a bit easier, in the end.  Plus when I successfully maintain this mindset, I don't have my friends from the upper mid-West laughing at me.  And that's valuable too.

Sick day

I skipped my long run this past Sunday.  I was sick.  And word from my coach was that if I was sick, I should skip the long run - I have plenty of 20 milers on the schedule ahead of me, so missing one 18-20 wouldn't be all that bad.

And so I found myself at home on a Sunday morning.  It was stunning.

My Sunday mornings are usually carefully orchestrated.  Long run, then proceed directly to gym (guzzling sports drink and eating hard boiled eggs on way) for injury prevention work.  From there to the pool for 20 minutes of very easy pool-running, to assist recovery, and then I hit Whole Foods, spend way too much money, and head home.  Long run starts at 8 am, I get home around noon-12:30.

No long run this weekend meant I was home instead, with a large block of time.   At first it was obvious what to do.  I was sick, after all.  I lay back on the couch, popped in Batman Begins, and vegged.

But then I started feeling a bit better.  Sore throat eased, and not quite as miserable.

I debated going for a short run, but opted against it.  I didn't feel 100%, and frankly if I was going to skip my long run, I'd gain more from a day free of aerobic exercise then I would from an easy hour's run.

So I stayed in, and ended up turning to all those things I keep meaning to do, but never actually accomplish.

Over the course of the next few hours, I filed paper work and shredded documents too old to keep.  I did laundry and reviewed my investment portfolio, making a few tweaks and additional purchases (I think now's a very good time to buy stock, if you're looking for long term gains).  I identified tons of clutter that could be dispatched to Goodwill.

[All this, plus the general work of being sick.   I attack my head colds.  I wash all my sheets, gargle with listerine constantly, drink as much fluids as I can stand, and pop echinacea, zinc, and vitamin c.  Plus multiple hot showers.  I don't take my sickness lying down.]

It was, again, stunning.  Everything that I got done.  But I'm honestly not posting this to brag (though I know it looks that way), but rather to reflect.

If I had not had a long run planned on Sunday, I would not have accomplished all this stuff.

And that's the rub.  Our lives, including our running, our personal errands, etc, expand to match the space we allocate to them.  My house is admittedly always a bit cluttered, the kitchen a bit dirty.  But the truth is, they'd remain that way even if I didn't spend umpteen hours a week running, foam-rolling, etc.

Interesting.  I'm not taking this as a message to try to fit in more -- I think one can go overboard to the point where everything is scheduled and planned - therein lies madness.  But it was an illustration of how much of the way we live our lives (and how frequently we file our paperwork) is a matter of personal choice, though we use phrases like "I don't have the time."

It's not that we lack time, but rather that we choose to spend time in other way.  Again, worth a bit of reflection.

Random Friday thoughts ( running and non-running)

1. Personal:  I haven't been updating recently, simply because I've had too much to balance.  When life gets hectic, social media falls to the wayside.  I do have quite a few topics to bloviate on (love that word) and will be doing so in the near future.  Promise.
   
   
2. Helpful running hint: if you are taping your feet before running, it can be near impossible to don a sock, especially a compression sock, without disturbing your careful taping job.  The solution?  Take a trouser stocking (made of pantyhose material and available at CVS), and cut it so that it's ankle height.  Then, after you tape your foot, pull the cut stocking over your foot.  Then put on your normal sock/compression sock - the compression sock will slide on without disrupting the tape job.
3. Personal:  I ran my cat to the animal hospital back at the beginning of December when I noted she was acting a bit odd (sluggish, hiding).   Glad I did.  It turned out that she had a major kidney infection, requiring 4 days hospitalization. 
   
   

   

   Kitty daily hydration. 
   My hand for scale.

   

   Mina in her hospital "room"

   
   Now she's home -- it appears that in addition to the acute kidney infection, she has some chronic kidney disease, requiring permanent management, including daily subcutaneous fluid injections to hydrate.    Fun times.  Luckily, my cat is cuddly, affectionate, and dumb, and hasn't yet figured out that 6 pm playandhug time is also shot time.
   
   Any runners dealing with chronic hydration issues are welcome to reach out to me for help - I've become quite an expert at finding the right fold of skin.  It can't be too much different for people, can it?
4. Helpful running hint: have difficulty keeping your hands warm in the winter?  I have a fairly severe case of raynauds, and this is something I've had to figure out.  Here's my secret: 
   Layer 1: thin combination mitten/gloves;
   Layer 2:disposable handwarmers, inserted into the mitten fold of your combo gloves;
   Layer 3: Crew socks over the mitten/handwarmer combo.
   Keeps your hands nice and toasty, and if they start to overheat, just toss the socks and maybe the handwarmers.
5. Worlds colliding - CEP, maker of compression running socks, apparently also makes socks for riding boots.  This threw me for a loop.
6. Personal: I just finished "Heads on Beds" - great read.  It's the hotel equivalent to Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential," but I like the writing style a bit better.  Highly recommended.



It may be Morton's toe,
but it's also mine.

7. Helpful running hint: The Strassburg sock is really helpful in combating plantar fascitis - it causes you to sleep with the fascia stretched out, so that you don't tear it when you take your first steps in the morning.  However, the sock works best when it pulls the most on your big toe - that gives the fascia a good stretch. 
   
   However, if you have Morton's toe (meaning that your big toe is shorter than your second or third toes), the sock pulls the hardest on those longer toes, meaning that you don't get the same good stretch. 

   

   Twisty!

   
   
   Solution?  Twist the sock!  Move the strap to the outside of the big toe, twist it once then strap as normal.  Works awesome.
8. Personal:  I cook primarily by microwave, and so I have two of them.  I see nothing unusual about this - stoves have 4 burners, serious bakers often have two ovens.  I cook (in the most lenient sense of the word) almost exclusively by microwave, and so I have two of them.  One died at the beginning of the month, and the other is on its last legs (8 minutes to burn Brussels sprouts?  Seriously?).  So now I need to buy two microwaves.  I'm working under the assumption that the best time to buy is just after Christmas.  I think I can make it until then. Maybe.